To ****** (Poem by John Keats)

Famous Poem

To ******
By John Keats

Had I a man's fair form, then might my sighs
    Be echoed swiftly through that ivory shell,
    Thine ear, and find thy gentle heart; so well
Would passion arm me for the enterprize:
But ah! I am no knight whose foeman dies;
    No cuirass glistens on my bosom's swell;
    I am no happy shepherd of the dell
Whose lips have trembled with a maiden's eyes;
Yet must I dote upon thee, — call thee sweet.
    Sweeter by far than Hybla's honied roses
        When steep'd in dew rich to intoxication.
Ah! I will taste that dew, for me 'tis meet,
    And when the moon her pallid face discloses,
        I'll gather some by spells, and incantation.

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